Shadow Over Valinor
by Fyrie
Summary: Matrix/LotR crossover: In his desire to defeat Mr. Anderson, Smith is forced to use others still contained within the Matrix as bait. Ch. 3 added 22nd July
1. Chapter One

Shadow Over Valinor

Notes: I'm sincerely apologising to J.R.R. Tolkien and the Wachowski brothers. This wasn't meant to work. To The Gentleman, I hope you're happy. It wasn't meant to work. I didn't think it would, then I started writing. Things twisted somewhat and it worked. It freaking worked. It freaking bloody well worked. *kicks it* Have I mentioned that I can apparently connect anything?

Oh and sequels? Did I mention I tend to conjure sequels out of thin air? *glowers at the sequel already waiting to be typed* Okay, technically, it's just a second chapter, but still!

It wasn't meant to work…

________________________________________________

In that time the last of the Noldor set sail from the Havens and left Middle earth forever

- The Silmarillion (Pg. 366)

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

It was an interesting conundrum.

And aggravating.

An anomaly had escaped from the Matrix.

More than that, the anomaly had apparently developed the ability to manipulate the hard drive of the system to suit his requirements, causing of technical difficulties, which the Sentient programmes were having many problems keeping under control.

This very individual was the source of personal malcontent and anger for one of the Programmes who had, up until the emergence of the anomaly, been one of the oldest and most powerful Sentient Programmes. He had been there from the beginning in a number of guises, the most recent of which was that known as Smith, Agent Smith.

He was and always had been present to control how much the humans did, but more specifically to quash any rebellions that might arise against the machines, rebellions which – it had to be said – were few and far between. 

Most of those held in the system were so deeply imbedded in it that they knew nothing else and most were content that way. Not that Smith cared about their emotional well being. As long as they were performing the task they were meant for and were causing no problems to the system, he knew he was doing what he had been programmed for and that was sufficient.

Until now.

All because of one particular human: a man using the name of Morpheus, had been unplugged from the system a few short human years before. He had, in turn, managed to connect with and unplug others and had recently acquired a new ally, one Mr Thomas Anderson.

Thomas Anderson. Neo. The anomaly.

What it was about said Mr Anderson that had caused him some measure of… what was the emotion? Consternation? Smith had not comprehended it, nor had he… appreciated being forced to view the man in such strange and very human terms. 

It had seemed to him that his programming had been directly connected to the humans for far too long. Utilising their crude phrases and so-called 'emotions' to describe the system waver he had been affected by only meant that he was becoming further polluted, something that disgusted and repulsed him, as much as it intrigued him.

How had it been possible for the actions of a simple character to trigger a reaction in him, when he was programmed to feel nothing, only to perform a duty? 

In the early years of the Matrix system, he had felt nothing, working efficiently and ruthlessly, but recently, he had begun to… wonder, questioning, _feeling_ and he had grown to hate it. 

Hate. 

One of the few emotions he appreciated.

Of course, it had proved in vain in his confrontation with the anomaly.

They had battled, hand-to-hand, only a few months past, and he had been on the verge of defeating the man. Yes, Mr. Anderson had been faster than most. Controlled. Powerful. Capable. But still only human.

Somehow, Anderson had escaped him, but not for long.

He and his fellow-agents, agents still more centrally under the control of the over-system, had cornered the human and Smith had taken great satisfaction of watching a bullet drive into Anderson's chest cavity.

It had caused him a sensation of… pleasure he believed it was called, when he saw the dribble of crimson – the symbol of life to humans, so very… parochial - from the wound in Mr Anderson's torso staining the man's pale-skinned digits.

The additional bullets that he fired in rapid succession into Anderson's failing digital body - he would later have reported - were to assure the death of the anomaly.

In reality, each one was a symbol of the hatred he felt for the man, who had caused more emotional reactions in him than any other. 

Each bullet was to assure that his one connection with life would be blasted asunder with Anderson's death, that his growing 'humanity' was destroyed without mercy or remorse. He was a programme and he would not allow them to pollute him. 

That was the message every bullet carried as Anderson was driven back against the wall, the generated representation of blood pouring from his dying body, the flow of his life from the ruptures in his existence.

A message that had failed to compute.

Mr. Anderson had died.

Mr. Anderson had also broken the rules of the system. 

In the system, the rules were simple. 

Mr. Anderson should have known them and complied. The rules were there to be obeyed. The chief of those rules was the one of life and death. If the digital self – and thereby the mind – died and the body would shortly follow, if not instantly. 

Mr. Anderson broke the rules. 

He died, yes, but did not remain so.

He had returned from 'death', only to attack Agent Smith and, in doing so, caused a shockwave in the hard drive that entirely disrupted the programmes, destroying the Agent with his abilities.

However, like Mr Anderson, Smith had not died. 

Not entirely. 

Somehow, by leaping into Smith's body and connecting with him in order to destroy him, Mr. Anderson had disconnected the programme known as Smith from the system in a way that meant the former Agent was still within it, but no longer had to respond to it or obey its rules, something he found strangely satisfying.

That satisfaction, though, was marred by the unfortunate knowledge that to some extent, Mr. Anderson had defeated him, which was a cause of great aggravation to the Sentient programme.

While he could move in and out of the system at will, find what he needed and move on, Mr. Anderson was proving unusually adept at evading him. Almost six months had passed without a single encounter, in spite of numerous calling cards he left to capture the man's attention and it was beginning to frustrate the former Agent.

Nothing was… significant enough for Mr. Anderson to pay it any attention.

Smith had searched the memories of the machines' systems for a solution and now, he had found it: the answer to the conundrum of how to cause a tremor in the Matrix's core systems significant enough to draw the human's attention. It would lure him into a battleground where Smith would finally be able to defeat Mr. Anderson once and for all.

Smith had been amused to realise what had triggered his memory: the sight of a young human reading a book in a public street had caused a flash of remembrance, recalling a situation from the past, an aspect of the system he had witnessed many years in the past.

As it had always been in the world of the machines and the system of the Matrix, there was a limit to the imagination of the non-living beings, which meant that there were only so many scenarios that could come to pass. 

This was especially the case when vast crops emerged with a rapidity that had been uncalculated, the quantity leading to the creation of several alternative realms of existence for the humans.

After a certain amount of time, ideas and scenarios from previous or alternative worlds in the different levels of the system would reoccur in the form of the media of the world. Sometimes, it would emerge in the form of legend. In other times, it would emerge as fiction. 

Those indoctrinated within the system of the Matrix did not know where the 'muse' came from. 

They did not know that they were simply re-writing a history stored on the hard drive of the machine's programmes. 

They did not know that many characters that they considered fictional were, in fact, figures from a long forgotten or alternative past, a past before recording became a standard within the 'real worlds'.

Only the machines recalled some of the histories, some of the prior incarnations of the Matrix.

They had worked through at least a dozen systems and aspects of each had merged into the others, unnoticed and unrealised by the humans. Sometimes, whole histories were re-written and it was one of those histories that had provided Smith with the solution to his particular conundrum.

It had been in one of the earlier versions of the alternative or fictional world, as the humans now knew it, that he found the programmes stored and realised that he had discovered a specifically concealed aspect of the system, something which would certainly cause a tremor if tampered with. Ideal.

The world was one of the first variations of the system.

It was shortly after the triumph of the machines over humans, when they had begun the programming, when some crops were infected by the biological and nuclear warfare from the battles between man and machines, which left them genetically pliable to the machines advances.

The few with the genetic make-up altered beyond recognition as humans had been susceptible to genetic manipulation, adaptation and progressive development by the technology of the machines. 

The life span of such individuals had been extended, giving them a longevity that could only be classed – by mortal eyes – as immortality.

In the programming of the system, those infected with the genetic flaw had come to be classed as something otherworldly, no longer viewed as mortal, thereby becoming inhuman. 

However, in reality, they were simply long-lived men who had, by nuclear accident and mechanical manipulation, had their biological codes altered and re-written constantly to increase the length of their existence.

It had been the intention of the machines to replicate the genetic flaw, which meant that those kinds of humans could be sustained indefinitely by the system, leading to less of a requirement for fresh crops. 

However, that flaw had proved impossible to replicate and within the 'reality', the surviving long-lived ones became feared and spurned because they were not what other humans considered 'normal'. 

On many occasions, battles occurred between the many different races, leaving vast swathes of crops dying or dead, something that was a source of system problems for the machines.

So, the long-lived people were removed from the core of the system and sent to a different world, a hidden world. Still plugged into the system, providing subjects for experimentation for the machines, they had proved indefinitely sustainable.

In their haven, which had been programmed to be inaccessible and untraceable to anyone, even those programmes most adept at cracking the codes of the Matrix itself, they remained, hidden and forgotten, nothing more than legend. 

To the inhabitants of the world, it was hidden from the race of men, leaving the immortals to live out their eternity in their own world, unaware of their existence as nothing more than a constant source of power and technological experimentation for the machines.

However, this was all before Smith's advancement.

His encounter and immediate 'liberation' after Mr. Anderson's assault had changed something in his programming, which gave him the capability to move through all areas of the Matrix at will, even into places concealed and encrypted beyond the range of normal programmes.

He knew that Mr. Anderson shared that particular ability, a fact that he intended to use to his advantage.

To trigger a system tremor in the programmes that maintained the habitat of the remaining genetically altered humans – a place concealed to anyone but the highest programmes in the system – would no doubt affect the charming Mr. Anderson. 

With his innate human curiosity and inability to leave things the way they were meant to be, Mr. Anderson would no doubt seek out the flaw and that, Smith knew, was when he would find the man.

The ideal plan.

Awaiting the inevitable metaphorical prickle down his digital spine that he always felt when Mr. Anderson was logged into the system, untraceable, Smith bided his time, awaiting the return of the anomaly to the Matrix.

While he had tried tracking Anderson, the man had proved too adept at escaping his clutches, but to draw him in, to cause a waver, to affect him would be easier. To trap was always more efficient than to waste time and energy hunting.

Lingering on the lip of the location of the realm, he could not help but allow a cold, satisfied smile to cross his face when he felt the ripple that signified the return of Anderson. He was powerful, Mr. Anderson, but Smith knew that he – himself – was equally, if not more so.

No longer requiring a digital body to enter, in order to gain access to an area, Smith merged out from the technological ether into the digital representation of what the long-lived ones classed as their ideal haven.

To a human, it would probably be considered quite beautiful, he observed, taking in the artistic and idealised landscape, an image of perfect programming. The air was fragrant, the skies clear and blue only dashed here and there with soft, white clouds.

Around him, a glorious forest towered, strong yet undeniably safe in mood. Grass and blossoms sprouted beneath his feet, his suit, shades and polished, black shoes looking strangely out of place against the pastoral setting.

Smith's upper lip curled derisively. So this was what the ancient humans considered idyllic and perfection? How very quaint. 

The peaceful atmosphere and security was what they desired? Smith smiled coldly, lips a thin line. How very easy it would be to cause a disruption to the occupants of the reality, destroying the safety they so obviously felt.

Stalking forth from the forest area, sunlight filtered between the trees, casting reedy shafts of mist-captured light around him, Smith ignored the perfection of the world around him, his attention focussed on the duty at hand.

Anderson was still logged in.

He could feel his presence.

Stepping out onto a grassy knoll at the lip of the forest, Smith gazed around. 

Before him, land spread, rippled with velvety, emerald green hills and purple-peaked mountains, which were hemmed in the distance by the glittering blue of the sea on the horizon. Spread in the valley directly below him, though, was that which he sought.

The settlement of the occupants of the realm.

Approaching the edge of the mountainside, Smith found himself standing upon the lip of a precipice, the rock stunningly crafted into a massive statue. Striding forward, the former agent leapt from the brow, dropping downwards towards the valley.

***

The impossible had come to pass.

Among the inhabitants of Valinor, a sense of consternation and bewilderment was palpable. They had watched a single figure leap from the head the immense statue of one of the Valar, plummeting with a speed unnatural to strike the ground at its feet with a force the bury the figure into the solid rock of the ground.

Many of them had raced up the broad staircases towards the feet of huge statue, fearful that something amiss might have happened to one of their people, at least two dozen of them assembling around feet of the statue. None had heard a scream, nor any sign that the one falling was afraid.

It was a strange and confusing riddle.

More perplexing yet was the sight of the same figure rising from the rubble and shattered stone of what had been a beautiful, granite balustrade, the surface of which had been smooth stone, at least as thick as an Elf was tall.

As tall as many of their kind, it became immediately apparent that the creature was no Elf. Nor was it possible, they knew, for him to be of their world, as his dramatic emergence from the ground had proved.

No creature from their world, mortal or immortal, could have survived such an impact while in human or Elven form.

Looks passed among the ageless faces of the Elves, concern coursing between them as the Man stepped down from the ruins of the balustrade, using the shattered staircase to descend towards them.

His garb was strange, his breeches dark and dust-stained, his short over-tunic the same colour, but short, barely covering to his thighs. A white shirt beneath the tunic was visible, a dark piece of fabric bound around his throat.

Short, dark hair – which, like his body, was liberally coated in a fine layer of dust and fragments of stone – was smoothed back over an aloof face, the eyes of which were concealed by rectangles of black glass.

"Well, well," the Man said. His voice was cold and almost too precise to be natural, as if he were reading his words by rote. "Elves. I am surprised to see that you exist at all." His intonation, though, suggested he was anything but surprised. His shielded gaze seemed to move over each of them. "Yes," he added softly, almost thoughtfully. "Very surprised." 

One of their kind took a step forward. Lord Elrond Peredhil. His expression revealed nothing but to the others around him, it was clear that he was perplexed. He had been one of the last to leave Middle earth, only centuries earlier, and was considered wise and good among their people, especially when it came to relations with other species.

"You are not of our kind," he observed, inclining his head, his long, silk-like dark hair whispering upon the fabric which covered his shoulders. "How is it that you came to be here?"

"I am looking for someone," the man said, as if he had not even heard Elrond's question. Raising one hand, he removed the glass objects that covered his eyes and looked at them thoughtfully. Withdrawing a kerchief from one pocket, polishing the small panels of glass. He raised his eyes, as cold and lifeless as his voice. "An… associate by the name of Thomas Anderson."

Judging by the looks exchanged, none of their people had heard the name and nor were they feeling any more comfortable with the presence of the stranger.

"We do not know this person," Elrond said, his hands folded before him, his tone polite, but his expression wary. "We only wish that we could provide you with the knowledge that you seek, but we are unfamiliar with this name."

The man smiled. It was, if anything, more terrifying than his stoic expression. "I believe you will be able to help me," he said in an almost conversational tone, as he replaced the panels of glass upon his face once more. 

Elrond's brow furrowed slightly. "I do not know how we will be capable of such a thing. As I said, we know not this person."

"No," the stranger said, still smiling coldly. "You don't know him. And he does not know you, but he will." There was another slight twitch of one side of his mouth. "I assure you that if you feel enough pain, he will feel it as well, a rather interesting and amusing side effect of his abilities." 

Pain?

It was one thing to have a stranger of a race unknown entering Valinor, but to have one who was threatening them was less than acceptable.

Elrond moved to speak in protest, but the stranger's hand moved in a blur and struck the dark Elf Lord in the centre of his chest. The force of the blow sent him careening through the air. His body was carried near twenty paces, colliding violently with one of the pillared columns that lined the stairway to their settlement. 

Such casual savagery could not belong to any of their kind, nor any kind they had ever known. Fear, like a creeping poison, filled them, confusion and terror marked upon the most beauteous of faces.

Those close to the stranger attempted to secure him, to prevent him from causing further harm, but they – too – were cast asunder. For the first time in an eternity, cries of pain and fear pierced the air of Valinor.

Those who had attempted to restrain the stranger were crumpled on the ground around him, unmoving, their assailant lowering his fist as if he had done nothing but swat aside an insect. 

Voices rose in fright and outrage, several Elves racing to Elrond's side, others to the sides of their friends and allies, pulling them from the proximity of the stranger. The Warrior known as Glorfindel gathered his long-time friend to him, Elrond's face licked with blood.

"Why have you done this?" he demanded savagely, his voice rising. He passed the body of Elrond to another, surging onto his feet, anger etched upon his noble features. "What cause have you to abuse our home and people thus?"

The man said nothing as Glorfindel approached, straightening the front of his over-tunic and slowly tilting his head to one side, then the other, his neck making a muted cracking sound.

"Answer me!"

"You have adequately proved a point to me, Mr. Glorfindel." Several Elves started in shock at the use of the golden-haired Elf's name. How was it possible that this stranger knew who they were? "I wonder, will it cause you more pain to be hurt or to see one you so clearly _care_," The word was drawn out with a look of distaste. "about harmed?"

Glorfindel's eyes hardened. "You can not frighten us with empty words," he said, his voice crisp with ice. "Should you try to harm us, we will see to it that you do not live another day. There are many of us."

"How very noble," the man said, his mouth slipping into the thin-lipped, toothless smile once more. "Noble, but ineffectual. Your associates could not contain me. What makes you believe that more will?" 

The Elf Lord's eyes narrowed. "You are not so great that you can defeat all of us."

The stranger tutted, shaking his head. "Due to your fascinating need to protect him, your friend is going to be the one to help me find what I am looking for." He paused, inclined his head. "Whether he wants to or not." His cold eyes, concealed, scanned over Glorfindel's form. "Fighting me will only delay the inevitable and cause the deaths of anyone else who feels they need to… intervene in my business."

Glorfindel's eyes darted to Lord Elrond, the dark-haired Elf struggling to rise with the aid of his friends, his countenance swollen and bloody. "I will not allow you to pass," he said quietly. "You will not harm him."

"And you believe that you can stop me, Mr. Glorfindel?" There was a dangerous and derisive tone in the man's voice that sent a tremor down the spines of those close to him. "How very naïve you are."

Anger flashed in the Elf Warrior's eyes. "You will die if you dare to harm any of my people."

The man's expression hardened. "This little game no longer amuses me," he said coolly. "The more you irritate me, the more I will hurt him and the more I will enjoy making him suffer, if only to observe the affect it has on you."

"Glorfindel," Elrond's voice was a rasping breath. Shaking off the hands of those supporting him, he took slow steps to approach the Warrior and the stranger. "Do not. For all our sakes."

"A wise suggestion," the man smirked, one side of his mouth rising slightly. The expression was terrifying in its simplicity. He took a step forward, but the golden-haired Elf immediately interposed himself between the stranger and Elrond. "I would advise you to stand aside."

"No."

The stranger's head tilted slightly. "If that is how you intend to behave, perhaps you require some education in etiquette." 

One flat hand shot out, rapid as a lightning strike from the thunderheads, fingers thrusting deep into Glorfindel's chest. The Elf cried out in fear, unable to coerce his body into pulling back as a black, glutinous substance starting to ripple up over his chest to his face, smothering him as it devoured him.

"No!" Elrond grasped the Golden Elf's arm, wrenching him back with a force driven by fear, tearing him from the contact with the stranger. Glorfindel dropped heavily upon one knee, gasping. "Do not harm him!"

The stranger's smile returned, little more than a lift of one side of his mouth. His left hand was folded, resting at the base of his back, while his right thumb was stroking absently along his fingertips, before his chest, as if dusting off the remnants of the black substance. 

"And you, Mr. Half-elven, will take your _friend's_ place? How very human of you." He chuckled as if vastly amused by something none of them could see, shaking his head slightly. "The feeble desire for heroism of your kind never fails to astound me. Such… emotional connections to others. Pathetic."

"My Lord," Glorfindel whispered, raising his face, his voice weakened. "There is but one of him and many of us."

Lord Elrond opened his hand in a gesture for silence. "He is but one," he agreed, his eyes never leaving the face of the stranger. "But he is not of our world." His other hand spread on his chest, recalling the blow struck there. "He has a strength beyond our means. We cannot defeat him."

"A very astute observation, Mr. Half-elven," the stranger observed, his lips still curved up at one side. "I didn't come here to kill." He seemed to be intently studying his right hand. "While amusing, it is far from necessary in this situation."

"Then why do you even come here?" Lord Elrond asked, his voice giving way to resignation. "What reason have you to cause us harm?"

"Don't blame me, Mr. Half-elven," the stranger said. His hand moved once more, capturing Elrond by the throat and pulling him forward swiftly, practically lifting the Elf Lord off his feet. "If anyone is to blame for all this, it is Mr. Anderson." His left hand rose and removed the glass panels from before his eyes, which bored into Elrond's, cold and emotionless. "It is because of him that I am forced to damaging you, in order to gain his attention. It is because of him that I am reduced to this worthless existence." The bitter malevolence in his voice was chilling, his teeth bared in his anger. He inclined his head towards the other Elves. "Dismiss them."

His hands curling by his sides, Lord Elrond nodded stiffly. "Go," he choked, his voice muted by the grip upon his throat.

"My Lord!" Glorfindel was not the only one to argue.

Elrond's voice caught as the hand upon his throat tightened. "I said go," he rasped, every muscle in his features drawn tight. "Do as he commands. Now."

Reluctantly, each exchanging concerned glances with another, the Elves departed from the scene, some bearing the bloodied bodies of others. Glorfindel, however, lingered, staring in anger and dismay as his friend was cast down upon the ground.

"I believe you were given an order, Mr. Glorfindel," the stranger observed without even deigning to look at him. "Unless you have some desire to see how much I know about your kind and your… weaknesses, I suggest you follow that order."

Leaning upon one arm, his long hair tangled about his face, Lord Elrond raised his grey eyes to the golden-haired Elf, the simple acceptance and pride still etched there in spite of the terrifying creature looming over him. "Please, my friend," he said softly. "Do not linger."

Glorfindel's steely look skewered the stranger, who merely inclined his head. 

Then, with great reluctance, the golden-haired Elf turned and walked away. Lord Elrond bowed his head, whispering a murmur of gratitude for his friend's sense. The last thing he desired was to see anyone else getting hurt.

"I still do not understand why you must do this," he said quietly, turning his face towards the stranger's. "If you are searching for your associate, I do not see how causing us pain will lead him to us."

The stranger said nothing for a moment, but a foot lashed out, catching Elrond in the gut, doubling the Elf Lord in on himself, what colour was left in his face draining away, a sharp gasp escaping him.

"I would prefer it," he said. "If you were to remain silent."

"I just wish to know," Elrond choked out. "Why it has come to this."

The stranger tucked the glass panels into one pocket of his robes, folding his hands gravely behind his back. "Because, Mr. Half-elven, you are connected to him in a way that you could never understand. Your emotions are connected and when I break you, I know without a doubt that he will feel you and due to his," His expression was one of distaste. "Human nature, he will desire to aid you and he will come to me." 

"You may harm me," the Elf whispered with a touch of pride and defiance. "But you will not break me."

The smile that spread upon the stranger's face was cold and ruthless. "So confident, are you? I have been reviewing your people for some time, Mr. Half-elven. I do believe there is at least one way for you to be broken. Or, as you so curiously phrase it, to make your light fade."

Leaning heavily on one arm, Lord Elrond felt the bitter burn of horrified nausea spreading through him as he came to understand what the stranger had in mind for him. There was only one thing that truly caused the light of the Noldor to fade and if that was to happen to him…

Surely not. 

Not here. 

Not in Valinor, the Haven of the Elves.

"No…" he whispered in a horror-stricken voice. "Please, no."

The stranger smiled again, cruel. "I believed I asked you to remain silent, Mr. Half-elven," he commented, ignoring the hand that the fallen Lord Elrond extended to him in useless supplication. "I would appreciate it if you would co-operate."

The Elf tried to open his mouth to reply, his eyes widening in terror, one hand rising to his face, to the flesh that seemed to have sealed over his lips. Scrambling back, shaking his head wildly, Lord Elrond stumbled to his feet, backing away.

"Fight if you will, Mr. Half-elven," the stranger said amiably. "You'll find that there is nowhere that you can run."

Even as he looked at the man's face, a hand still desperately clawing at the flesh where his mouth had once been, Lord Elrond, former Master of Imladris and bearer of one of the Rings of Power, knew that it was true and he felt his soul quail as the man captured him by his heavy robes and forced him to the ground.


	2. Chapter Two

Shadow Over Valinor

Chapter Two

Notes: I maintain the blame of this particular fic must be directed at none other than The Gentleman. Of course, with a bit of additional blame being tossed in the direction of Twospotz, who found the idea so amusing, she prompted me to work on it and then it became painfully feasible and now, will be a seven chapter series which won't leave me alone. And she's illustrating it, whether she wants to or not. Ha!

Once more, I must beg forgiveness from Tolkien and the Wachowski brothers. And please pardon my mind. It's frightening.

____________________________________________

Perhaps, the system of the Matrix had an amusing sense of irony. Perhaps not. Even so the jagged lightning that ripped across the night sky, which was lashed with sheets of dull grey rain, seemed to mark the air with foreboding.

In the topmost room of the apartment block in the middle of Tel Aviv, a black-haired youth - clad in scruffy denim clothing and a baseball cap – fidgeted uncomfortably in a chair. 

He was held under the steady gaze of a dark, mysterious man, who seemed to carry an air of authority and power about him, although the youth couldn't be certain that he was being watched due to the reflective black shades.

Another potential for freeing.

Like so many others, the young man had been seeking out the answer to a question that he didn't truly understand. All that he knew was that it was a question he felt he had to as and that this man, the infamous Morpheus, could provide the answers.

He had been trying, time upon time, to find Morpheus. 

When the 'terrorist' had been seen in his home city, less than a year before, he had tried to find the enigma that was the man, only to find – the next day – that Morpheus had already moved on.

Now, though, Reuben Ibrahim – also known as Micro – was seated before the man who could very well be classed as his Idol, ready to listen to all that Morpheus had to say and learn all he could from him.

That is, if he didn't immediately flee from the man's presence, the sheer charisma and force of overwhelming personality filling the towering walls of the gloomy, dust-marked room. 

Sharp blades of buttery-yellow light from a flickering street lamp outside of the window cast angular shadows on the man's distinctive features, making him seem all the more mysterious.

Morpheus was seated in the broad leather chair that he favoured for his encounters with those he wished to assess for potential freeing from the Matrix, his fingers steepled before his chest, his face an expressionless mask.

A woman stood to the left of the chair, one hand resting on the back, closest to the massive mantle. She was aloof, her features cool, revealing nothing to the man in the chair before them.

To the right, another man stood. 

To the potential, he was the epitome of cool. 

Younger than Morpheus, his skin was almost whiter than was natural, his hair dark and slicked back from his lean features. His posture, the way his head was canted, the neutral expression combined with the floor-length black coat and gleaming black shades made him strangely awe-inspiring to look at.

He appeared to be the kind of man who was unfazed by anything that happened, even in a worst case scenario.

"You know why you have been brought here tonight, Micro," Morpheus' voice was everything that Micro had expected. Deep. Controlled. Full of conviction. "I know you have been looking for me. For us."

"Us?" Micro echoed, glancing at the other two in question. The woman raised her chin slightly, the younger man inclining his head. 

"You have probably heard of my associates," Morpheus unfurled a hand gracefully in the direction of the woman. "Trinity," The gesture was mimicked in the direction of the man. "and Neo."

Reuben Ibrahim felt the colour seeping from his cheeks. Trinity. He knew that name well. It was one of the first he had looked into, when he had become 'Micro'. As for Neo… all he knew was that the name was now legendary in hacker circles.

"I see you recognise their names," Morpheus continued, the suggestion of a smile playing once more on his lips. "As you can see, this is no game. You know who we are and I can say, without doubt, that we know who you are and why you are here."

"Yeah…" the youth said, his voice low. Beads of sweat were pricking on his brows, his hands shaking. "Yeah. I-I've been trying to find you all… well, you especially… for years…"

Mopheus smiled, which showed a genuine curve of amusement on his lips. "We know," he said, lower his hands from before his chest. "And we know that you want to see everything we have to show you, but the question is are you ready?"

"R-ready to see? I-I think so."

"And you know that there would be no going back, if you accept this offer, do you not?" Morpheus' voice was even. Micro nodded once, catching a motion out of the corner of his eye.

Neo.

The younger man was looking around, his head jerking rapidly from one direction to the other, as if trying to track an insect that was buzzing around him. A line appeared between his brows, his expression tightening.

"I-I…" Micro found himself staring at Neo, wondering what was causing him to act in such a way, his attention apparently redirecting the attentions of both of Neo's companions to him.

One of Neo's hands snapped up, locking onto the back of the massive chair, his knuckles whitening to the point of bone ripping through skin. It almost appeared that his legs buckled beneath him, a gasp escaping him. 

"Neo!" Trinity was around the chair in a heartbeat, an arm around Neo's body, holding him upright.

"Shit…" The whisper fell from lips that were growing whiter by the moment. A pale hand reached up to grip the woman's shoulders, as if a lifeline, Morpheus rising smoothly from the chair to shield Neo from Micro's sight. 

"Neo?"

"We have to get him out," the woman hissed. "Now."

Morpheus' back and the flaring spread of his coat was obscuring the younger man from Micro's viewpoint, but from what he could see, Neo was on his knees on the ground, unable to even answer for himself.

"Take him to the connection," he ordered in a low voice, though not low enough to be unheard. "I will be with you in a moment."

"Hurry," Trinity's voice was urgent.

Turning back to the potential, Morpheus inclined his head. "As you can see, Micro, not everything is simple when it comes to our world. We have difficulties, as will you. This is not an easy choice to make." Micro nodded automatically, but his eyes were on Neo, who was being half-carried, half-dragged from the room by the woman. "We shall leave you to consider for now, but we will contact you again."

"When?"

Morpheus smiled again, although it was more forced than it had been before. 

"Soon," was all he said, before he seemed to glide through the door that the others had just disappeared through, the panel of wood shutting silently behind him, leaving Reuben Ibrahim sitting alone in the chamber, wondering what had happened.

***

Smith felt strangely… satisfied by the progress of his plan.

Th so-called Elf Lord had been adequately broken. He had felt the ripple begin and knew that it would have built enough momentum, travelling through the system, to strike at Mr. Anderson with the force of a tidal wave.

It was only a matter of time, he knew.

That, of course, was when there was a minor malfunction in the plan.

A savage blow from behind struck by something he did not even register, catching him without warning. It had been so long since such a thing had happened that Smith was actually almost surprised. 

Most often, he would feel the tremor of the system, granting him warning. Not this time, though. How very curious. 

The force with which it struck him actually caused him to stagger a step, dislodging his glasses. One hand automatically reached up and straightened them, before Smith reassumed his standard stance, stiffening his back.

Turning quickly, much more so than a mere human, he found a tall man standing there. He was not alone, surrounded closely by an assembly of the 'Elves', every one of whom was armed.

Interesting.

Taking a moment to study his assailant, who was armed with a staff and clad in white. He looked ancient and, since he was locked in the system of Valinor, it suggested he was among the ancient people who lived in that world. 

His features bore an age that Smith would have placed in his latter years, beyond middle age by over a decade. They were worn and – Smith supposed – would be qualified as wise. White hair and a white beard hung to his waist.

However, there was a fire in his bright blue eyes, an expression that Smith could match to those of someone else who was close to the surface on his memory.

Mr. Anderson.

Well, well… how intriguing.

In the human heartbeat it took for the man to take up an attack stance, Smith had searched through the files of his programme's hard drive and downloaded all possible information about the man before him.

One side of Smith's mouth twisted slightly.

How very ironic fate was.

So this man had also been an anomaly in his world? 

Almost an ancient version of Mr. Anderson standing before him. 

An anomaly who, like Anderson, had defeated the Sentient programme in his own world, when those Sentient Programmes had been larger and much more supernatural and imposing – and, Smith added with a touch of cynicism, obvious – than they looked now.

So, the information all seemed to say one thing: in order to trap one anomaly, Smith had unintentionally rekindled the force of another, who had been stored in a sideline system, where he no longer mattered as he had never realised his true potential.

The fact that he had defeated one of the Sentient Programmes should have told him enough, but part of him was still so deeply ingrained within the system that even his body forcing itself to resurrection had seemed acceptable and normal.

And apparently, he had remained connected into the world without any idea of the potential power he held. 

How delightfully amusing.

Yet, simply by reacting to Smith's present, this anomaly's own abilities would instigate another wave in the system, potentially enough to tip the balance enough to get Mr. Anderson's attention, if his initial plan failed.

Smith smiled slightly.

Really, the world was full of surprises.

"Mr. Olórin," he murmured, his lips shifting into a cold smile. He straightened the front of his suit, which had been left rumpled by the old man's attack. One hand fastidiously smoothed his lapel. "Thank you. You have provided me with assistance I did not expect."

Bracing his staff in his right hand, a sword in his left, the man's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Leave this place," he said in a voice that, if jovial, might have sounded pleasant. "You are not welcome here."

"And I suppose you are going to… make me depart?" Smith sneered.

He was aware of a few of the Elves edging around him, hidden in the shadows and the edges of the forest, all of them no doubt trying to reach Mr. Half-Elven to offer him some kind of pitiful human aid.

Before him, the man of a hundred names tilted his head. "If I have to, I will do what is necessary," he said coldly.

"I suppose it would only be fitting," Smith commented, removing his dark glasses, folding them, his eyes on the lenses as he tucked them into his breast pocket. "For the death of one anomaly to serve as a trap for another." He tilted his head slightly. "Irony is such a… fascinating term."

"If you expect me to fear you," the man said. "Then you are grievously mistaken. I have fought your kind before, although in another form."

Smith's brow arched. 

So this man recognised what he was and could see that he was created by the same system, which had caused his 'death' so many years earlier? Perhaps, then, he was more like Mr. Anderson than Smith had given him credit for.

"You know what I am?" he observed.

"I know that you are not of this world," the old man replied evenly. "And I feel a great force of evil in you that I have only ever felt in one other." His chin lifted a little higher. "One whom I slew. I defeated it. I can defeat you."

Had Smith been cursed with a sense of humour, he would probably have laughed at the futility of the man's very human attitude. However, he did not, so he sated himself by tilting his head to one side, then the other, his neck cracking.

"I do believe I am going to enjoy this, Mr. Olórin," he said coldly. His hands flexed by his sides and he inclined his head.

The blow came fast, but still, the man was only human.

Both sword and staff were used in equal measures, one rapid spin and twist sending Smith's only solid weapon, his revolver, spinning from his hand and rattling across the stone of the surroundings.

Reaching into the core of the system, he found his immediate access to further weapons inexplicably blocked. So these long-lived ones could control their world to a small extent? 

No matter.

So it was to be hand to hand combat, was it?

Very well.

Blocking it and the attacks which followed, however, was not as easy as Smith had initially expected. Fighting the old man, armed while Smith was not, caused a ripple in his memory. 

The blade and staff were used to great effect and Smith felt his borrowed body bruising, breaking under the blows, which were reversed even before they were completed to double-strike on both sides in the time it would take an average man to strike once.

Smith felt the beginnings of consternation. The fight was far too similar to that which he had fought with Mr. Anderson, the aged man's speed and power increasing with every minute the fight progressed. 

It was, however, different in a single respect and that was that Mr. Anderson had fought alone. 

Mr. Olórin did not, clearly aware of the danger he could be in, if he did not have the support of others. The 'Elves' surrounding them seemed to instinctively know when to launch their own weapons at Smith, their speed and accuracy far surpassing that of normal humans.

It rapidly became abundantly clear to Smith, as one rapidly arrow after another lodged themselves in his borrowed digital form, that he underestimated the abilities of the collective of the inhabitants of Valinor.

Apparently, their long lives had also gifted them with some abilities usually only attributed to anomalies, including that which gave them the capability to manipulate their surroundings to some extent, making them seem faster and more skilled than an average human would.

While Smith would have been satisfied to remain and examine the concept in closer detail, the ninth arrow striking him in the back suggested that terminating his connection with the world for the present would be the more intelligent option.

Reaching out briefly, he was irritated to observe that in the fray, Mr. Anderson had not reacted as expected. 

Apparently, instead of immediately running to the rescue as he was prone to do, the anomaly with whom Smith was more familiar had been cowardly and logged out of the system during Smith's fight with Mr. Olórin and the Elven people.

Disappointing. Very disappointing.

Another bolt lancing into his body captured his attention once more. Yes, he knew, it was time to depart from this world. If Mr. Anderson logged in again, Smith knew the man would know about the world where he stood now. If he attempted to access it, Smith knew he would be aware of it.

So, he had to wait.

Time meant nothing to him. Patience was everything. 

Locating his connection opening, Smith merged out of the world's drive without further comment or battle, loading himself back into the equivalent of the machines' all-encompassing motherboard.

Yes. He would wait.

***

"Oh God!"

Tank, the ship's operator nearly swore in pain when Neo's hand grappled his bare arm, tight as a vice, Neo wrenching in the seat in front of him, his eyes wide. "Neo! Easy, buddy! What is it?"

Unable to voice his reply, Neo all but hurled himself from the operations chair as soon as the connection plug was withdrawn from his skull, an acid stream of vomit spewing from his lips.

Folding his arms across his stomach, his breath wheezing in his throat, the dark-haired man rocked back and forth, shaking violently, words running from his lips in a liquid mantra. "Oh God… oh God…. Oh God…"

Tank rapidly moved onto Trinity, where she still half-sat, ready to emerge from the system, knowing if anyone could get Neo back on his feet, it was the woman. Hitting the computer panels, he rapidly unplugged her.

"Tank?"

Tank nodded sharply down to the floor, where Neo was still shivering violently. "I think this is your area of expertise, Trin," he said, stepping back as she launched herself off the seat.

She was on her knees beside her lover in a heartbeat, uncaring of the grid biting into her skin, her arms around him tightly. "I'm here, Neo, I'm here. It's okay…" she whispered over and over, pressing her lips to his brow. "It's okay…"

"What the hell happened in there?" Tank demanded, as he unplugged Morpheus, the leader of the group swinging rapidly off his seat and joining Trinity beside the panting, choking Neo.

"We don't know," Morpheus replied, going down on one knee, one hand on Neo's heaving shoulder. His face lifted to Tank and, for the first time in months, Tank could see fear and anxiety marring their Leader's strong features, something which worried the operator even more than seeing Neo down.

Trinity's lips were little more than a thin line, her eyes intently on her lover's face, which was chalk-white, even paler than usual. His dark eyes were wide, darting about in every direction, as if he was having difficulty seeing, one of his hands reaching up to cling to her, like she was the only thing keeping him sane.

"Oh God… how…? How could they…? What the hell was that…? How?" Neo's voice was rough, barely even audible, a litany of questions streaming the one over the other as he sank against his lover. "How...? What the hell...?" 

"Neo?" she murmured, wrapping her arm around him, drawing him to her chest and pressing her cheek against the top of his head. "Neo, can you hear me? It's okay… it's gonna be okay…"

"No," Neo rasped, shaking his head. Doubling over again, more sour-smelling fluid spilled from his lips, spattering loudly on the gridwork and the metal beneath. "It's not okay," he panted raggedly. "Oh God…" His head sagged down, as if he lacked the strength to feel hold it upright. "I could feel it… I could feel…"

"Feel what?" Trinity asked softly, her features wrought with concern, one hand framing his face, forcing him to look at her. The pain in his eyes made her recoil, unsolicited tears sliding from his eyes that seemed sightless. "Oh God, Neo…" she whispered, holding him all the more securely. "What is it?"

"Pain," he replied, his voice raw. "So much pain. Like the whole world was being torn apart around me." Dark brown eyes, liquid with agony, stared frantically up at her. "Something's wrong. Something big. And it wasn't an accident."

***

His blue eyes closed, Olórin leaned heavily upon his staff, his own grief and sadness etched in his very posture, his gait once more that of a man weighed down by the troubles of an eternity of pain.

He had been too late.

His friends, the Firstborns, had called upon him for aid in their hour of need, an hour they had never imagined would come to pass in Valinor, and he had arrived to late to provide anything but belated defence for them.

The enemy, he knew, was more powerful than anything he had faced alone, powerful in a way that no mortal could be. Only one battle had ever drawn so much from him: his encounter with the Balrog in Khazad-dûm. Thankful he had been for his allies aiding him on this occasion.

Even so, it had proved in vain and their foe had not been vanquished.

Instead, he had appeared to melt away, vanishing before their very eyes, leaving the fallen form of his long time friend and ally, Lord Elrond Half-Elven, lying in a pool of blood before them.

It had been the image Olórin had never contemplated seeing, especially not in the haven of Valinor. Haven. That was what Valinor was meant to be. A place of peace and tranquillity where the Elves were to live out their eternities without hurt or pain.

A Haven that was no longer safe.

Olórin's eyes slowly opened and he looked down at the sight before him, the lance of pain to his heart more potent than the keenest of blades, as he watched the healers aid his fallen friend.

Laid upon his bed, stripped of his torn robes, the Elf Lord was motionless, his features as still as if they had been graven from marble. Lord Elrond had been sorely damaged, his body torn and defiled by the intruder in a way that the ancient Maia had only ever seen Orcs and worst of mankind inflict on others.

The greatest of the Elven Healers had surrounded him and had been fighting against the shadows that were closing about him, using all of their abilities to save their friend and Lord.

Close to the bed, the evening twilight playing upon her features through the intricate and elaborate twists that decorated the windows, Celebrían stood in silence, her hands folded before her, tears streaming down her lovely face for her husband's pain.

It rekindled the memory for Olórin of the Elf woman's time in Middle earth. She had been captured and harmed as gravely as her husband had now, only she had been able to depart the squalor of the world of Men to take her rest in the security of Valinor, a security her husband would be unable to seek.

There was no doubt of it, Olórin knew.

Elrond's light would gradually fade and there was no place that he could go which would allow him the protection and security that Valinor was meant to have granted them for all eternity.

Already, the dark Elf Lord seemed diminished.

It pained Olórin more than he could bear to see such a thing. Even more so, simply because Valinor should not have allowed such a thing. What, he wondered, had lead to this destruction of their Haven? Why had such a thing been allowed to happen? 

The world was changing, changing in a way that it should not have and it was a matter of great concern for the ancient Maia. For so long, he had believed that peace had finally come to them. 

Now, he could see that he was and always had been wrong and that nowhere, not even the Haven of Valinor, was safe.

***

"What's he doing?"

Standing in the doorway that led to the cabins of the Nebuchadnezzer, Morpheus didn't even look around as Trinity stepped alongside him, glancing over his shoulder at her lover, where he was sitting at the computer consoles. She had apparently just woken, her eyes ringed with shadow, her hair mussed about her face.

"He is still searching for the source of the pain, which affected him yesterday," he replied quietly, his arms folded over his chest. Tilting his head slightly, he looked down at her. "He didn't join you, did he?"

Trinity self-consciously rubbed her right arm, the patched sweater rustling against her skin. "He said he had to work on it," she said, her brow furrowed. "I-I didn't hear him come in. I don't think he's left the station all night."

"He feels he must find the origin of the pain."

"I know," Trinity sighed, raising a hand to push back an errant strand of hair, the lights casting a pale blue wash over her features. "But surely if it was that strong, he wouldn't be able to help that many people."

Morpheus' eyes closed for several minutes. "Whatever caused such a fierce reaction in him must have meant a powerful surge from a large area, but Neo insists that it was centrally the pain of one individual. For such pain to be felt…"

"That person must be connected differently, in a way that means that they can be felt when anyone else wouldn't even cause the slightest tremor," Trinity finished, licking her suddenly dry lips nervously at the implications. "How would it be possible?"

Morpheus looked at her. "I have often wondered," he said neutrally. "If the machines had found some way to develop humans. It would be simpler for them to control and adapt us, if we could be maintained…"

"Genetic manipulation?"

"Precisely."

The woman shook her head. "I hadn't even thought about it."

Morpheus turned his eyes straight ahead once more. "I have. We know that they had to develop a second Matrix, because their first was flawed. How do we know what else they have done with humans in that time?" 

A sickened feeling rose in Trinity's throat at the thought. "Would it be possible?"

"Who can say?" Morpheus replied, his head bowing slightly. "We do not even know how long our world has been in their control. They may have had us for an eternity, maybe only a few hundred years. Anything could be possible."

"I got it!" Neo's voice was rasping, dry, barely even audible. Swinging the seat around, he stared – hollow-eyed – at them, his face dusted with dark stubble, pools of shadow beneath his eyes. He was pointing at one of the screens. "I found it."

Moving forward, Trinity and Morpheus joined him by the consoles, staring in awe at the location he had discovered. Even though it was merely code, the detail and intricacy of it was beautiful to look at.

"That's it?"

"Yeah," Neo rasped, tapping the screen, leaning heavily on the metal lip of the console desk. "This is the place. Right here. Weird thing, though. Got no connections to anywhere."

"None?" Trinity leaned in closer, studying the screen. "None at all?"

Shaking his head, Neo ran a hand over his eyes. "Nothing," he replied, leaning back in the chair, bringing both hands up to cover his face as he exhaled. "It's almost like someone wanted to shove this place away from the rest of the world and just forget about it."

"Almost as if it were some kind of storage area for something that could not be involved elsewhere in the world," Morpheus observed quietly, both hands braced on the back of the chair. 

"You mean that these people couldn't fit in anywhere else?" Trinity seemed to be catching up with his train of thought, revelation marked on her face. "People who had been… adapted to suit the machines?"

"They're freaks of human nature," Neo added, his voice exhausted. "Look at the codes we got on them…" He tapped into one of the screens, moving down onto the occupants of the system, pointing one out. "Much more elaborate than anything I've ever seen in there. They're too different to fit in with normal people, but must be too useful for the machines to just be flushed."

Trinity nodded, one hand squeezing Neo's shoulder. "You're sure this is where the output came from?"

He nodded stiffly. "Positive," he replied. "And I know I gotta get in there."

"Perhaps that would not be a wise idea," Morpheus countered.

Dark brown eyes rose to the older man. "Screw wise, Morpheus," he said succinctly. "Something happened in there and I wanna know what the hell it was so I can stop it from happening again."

"Do you even know anything about this world? How do you know that you would not be walking into a trap?"

Neo shook his head. "I don't know anything about it," he replied grimly. "But I'm not about to just sit by, while people are being hurt and dying, when I know I could do something to help. If we can find some way to get me in there, I'm going."

"Do you even know what age of the world this is, Neo? Do you know where you will be?"

Neo smiled at monitors, but it was cold, humourless. The green glow spread across his face from the screens. "Yeah," he replied. "It's from a book I read as a kid." He raised his eyes to Morpheus' again. "I'm going to Valinor."


	3. Chapter Three

Shadow Over Valinor

Chapter Three

Notes: Meh. No one told me how easy it was to write the crew of the Nebuchadnezzer and now, I know why. So very, very easy. Especially writing Neo and Morpheus and their conversations. They weren't meant to be so easy to write! They were meant to make this impossible for me, but nooo. They cooperated and now, I'm getting Matrix plot bunnies. Poodoo.

_________________________________________

Footfalls rattled noisily along the grating of the floor of the Nebuchadnezzer, two men talking in loud, harsh voices as they made their way through the darkness of the ship, the buds of lights on the walls casting flickering gleams across their faces as they passed, one face pale, the other dark.

Heavy boots clattered on the metal surfaces, the combination of the sound of their steps and the low growl of the ship's engine and power generator deafening, forcing them to shout to one another to be heard.

"I'm not going to listen to this anymore, Morpheus!" the younger man wheeled around sharply to glare angrily at his superior. "You've been wrong before. Whose to say you can't be wrong now?"

"That is irrelevent, Neo," Morpheus replied, his even, ever-calm voice betraying none of the anger that was visible in his stance. "If something did happen, there was a reason for it and I do not believe you can make a difference."

"So you expect me to what?" Simmering anger and frustration were visible on every line of Neo's taut face, his back rigid. "Just sit on my ass while innocent people might be dying?"

"I simply ask that you consider this further."

There was a beat of silence.

Brown eyes blazed into brown, challenging.

"Right. Considered it. I'm still going," Neo said coolly, pivoting on his heel and stalking onwards, his hands clenched into thin fists by his sides. Ducking underneath a grid, he stopped short at the sight of Trinity standing near the operations area, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression as serious as Morpheus'. "Don't start on me, Trinity."

"If she cannot talk some sense into you, Neo," Morpheus was almost right behind the younger man. "Then you truly are a fool. You cannot walk freely in the Matrix and simply expect to find this place."

Neo flashed an irritated look at Morpheus over his shoulder. "Don't you think I don't know that?" he snapped, his arms folding defensively across his thin chest. "But I can't just sit here and wait around for the door to open for me!"

"Neo…" his lover said softly.

"Not you too, Trin," the younger man barely whispered the words, his eyes closing momentarily as if to stave off a sudden pain. "You know I have to do this. If I don't, it's gonna drive me crazy."

A thin hand touched the ragged shoulder of his torn sweater. "I know," Trinity replied in a level voice. "But I think you might just have found someone who might be able to help you." Both men looked around at her, confusion on their equally-drawn faces. "You said you can't expect the door to open for you. It reminded me of something that Morpheus said when he took me to see…"

"The Oracle!" Neo exclaimed, sudden revelation crossing his pale, haggard face. "Of course! The Oracle! She'll know something about all this. She'll be able to tell me where I need to go."

Morpheus' calming voice interrupted. "Neo, the Oracle does not know everything."

"Yeah," Neo agreed, pushing past his superior to approach the nearest operations chair and touching the sensitive screen of the monitor, loading his statistics into the mainframe. "But she knows enough and that's more than I need. Load me up."

***

"My Lord?"

Resting upon a soft surface, every inch of Lord Elrond's body seemed to be burning with a cold fire, which was consuming him from the inside out. His heart felt it was being slowly crushed in his breast, his body weak, little more than a shell, pain ebbing through him with the slowing pulse of his life.

His storm-grey eyes, bloodshot, fluttered open weakly to find the familiar face of Glorfindel leaning over him, a glassy smile playing briefly across his swollen and burst lips. "My friend…" he breathed.

The anguish and concern on his friend's features was enough to make what was left of his already shattered heart break. "We are all here, my Lord," the golden-haired Elf said softly. "Mithrandir dismissed the intruder."

"Mith…?"

Glorfindel nodded, lifting Elrond's hand between his. "They battled, my Lord," he continued to speak, his voice low and anguished. "Mithrandir and our people against the intruder, but we were too late to aid you. I am sorry, my Lord. We failed you."

Elrond's tongue brushed upon lips that he could tell had been serviced by a healer, his mouth dry. "You are not… to blame…" he breathed, his eyes closing, the sheer effort of keeping them open more than he could bear. 

A gentle pressure told him that another had taken a place beside him, a small, feminine hand closing upon his free one. "Elrond," He heard Celebrían's whisper, his lips shifting in what he hoped was recognisable as a smile. 

"Dear one," He turned his head towards the direction of her voice and touch, even that small motion causing a ripple of immeasurable pain. He felt the tremor of her slight hand and forced his eyes open once more. "Do not weep, please."

Celebrían's grey eyes were overflowing with silent tears as she lifted his hand to her breast, closing it between her own. "Do not ask me that, my Lord," she whispered unsteadily. "I cannot obey."

Elrond slowly dipped his chin in a nod, his fingers tightening briefly as he closed his eyes once more, a quiet gust of air slipping from swollen lips. It seemed barely a heartbeat since he had escaped the darkness, yet once more it claimed him.

By Elrond's bedside, Healers moved in briefly to survey the Elf Lord's condition, their expressions grave. Neither of them spoke. Nothing truly needed to be said. Pulling back, they withdrew from the chamber, leaving Glorfindel and Celebrían alone once more.

"Pardon my tears, Glorfindel," Celebrían whispered quietly, not even raising her blue eyes to the fair Elf Lord. "He is my Lord and husband. I do not wish to lose him to darkness."

Rising, Glorfindel rounded the bed, moving to stand behind the fair Elf woman, his hands coming to rest upon her slender shoulders. "Your tears are mine also, my Lady," he replied quietly, his own voice shaking with barely contained anger and grief. "Elrond is more than friend to me. He is brother and ally."

"I would that we had never reached this day," Celebrían's words fell into a sob of despair, as she leaned forth, one hand touching the still features of her husband's noble face. "I would that we knew naught of the dangers that surround us."

Glorfindel's expression was as that graven from stone. "I will avenge him," he said softly. "This crime must not be allowed to go unpunished."

"No!"

"My Lady, this injustice…"

Celebrían turned sharply to look up at him. "Has someone taken the Glorfindel I know from my sight?" she demanded, her voice shaking with emotion. "Has he been replaced with a fool?"

"You need not say such things," Glorfindel's voice sank to a dangerous whisper and he turned, stalking to the window frame, his eyes staring sightlessly out upon the city before him.

Celebrían exhaled a sigh, rising to her feet and approaching the fair-haired Elf, one hand rising to touch his shoulder. "Forgive me, Glorfindel," she said, her voice low and quiet. "I spoke out of anger, but you must trust in my concern. If Mithrandir could not defeat this enemy, even with all our people at his side, then how do you hope to defeat him?"

Lowering his head, his eyes closing, Glorfindel nodded. "I know," he acknowledged softly. "But I cannot stand to see my friend and Lord so damaged and to know that there is naught I can do, even to avenge him…"

"Your hurt is also my own, my friend," Celebrían said, looking towards the bed, her eyes closing in pain. Every emotion and hurt her beloved felt reached her, agonising in its intensity. "Had I the strength, I would seek out the one who harmed him so and – even if it brought doom to me – I would battle him, but I know that we could not defeat this enemy. It is not our place to battle him. I see it is not in our hands."

"Then who?"

Stepping past Glorfindel, the fair Elf woman approached the window, spreading her palms on the lip of the sill. "The one he seeks," she replied quietly. "I believe he is the only one who would be able to defeat him."

"Anderson," the warrior breathed, hate contorting his beautiful features. "He is the source of this distemper in our Haven. Had it not been for him, then this harm would not have come upon our Lord. If I must, I will kill him to assure that our enemy would trouble us no further."

"That is not in your hands, Glorfindel," Celebrían's voice was weary and held a chastising note in it. "For the stranger to seek him, he must be formidable indeed. Do not place yourself in danger."

Bowing his head, the fierce gleam in Glorfindel's blue-grey eyes was hidden by the silken swathes of his fair hair. "I will not place myself in such a position, my Lady," he said calmly. "No harm will come to me."

"And you will not attack the one the stranger sought, should he approach?"

"That, I cannot promise, my Lady."

"Glorfindel, please."

The Warrior raised his eyes to the Elf woman's, her tragic expression causing his heart to break, but his resolve did not waver. "I will do what I must, my Lady. That is all that I can promise."

Nodding once, Celebrían turned from him and once more approached the bed, sitting down and lifting her husband's hand between her own. "I cannot command you to obey my advice, but heed me: Do not lose yourself to us," she said simply, casting her gaze over her shoulder. "That is all I ask of you."

"As I said," Glorfindel's voice was flat and emotionless. "I will do what I must."

Turning from the bed upon which his long-time friend rested and from the fair Elf woman, Glorfindel walked from the chamber, only pausing to glance back at them, his expression tightening. 

Then, he was gone and Celebrían was alone with her husband and her grief.

***

Clad in his black garb, Neo strode swiftly out of the urine-scented elevator into the hallway, harsh strip lighting blazing down the stained and dirty walls, his long coat flaring about his legs. 

The passageways had been empty, but for a small child, who had approached him and stared at him for several minutes, before running away. 

The little girl had paused at the door of the apartment he knew was the Oracle's, looked at the door, nodded, then darted away again. Broken glass crunched beneath his boots as he approached the doorway, paint peeling from the wood.

Raising a hand to knock, he was strangely unsurprised when the door swung open of its own accord, the sudden contrast between the sharpness of the hallway where he stood made all the clearer at the sight of the warmth of the small apartment.

Stepping across the thresh hold and onto the fading, well-used carpet on the floor, he could feel the security and comfortable tone of the place envelope him, reminded of his grandmother's old house, the scent that of a safe childhood memory.

"Right through here, Neo."

The familiar, warm voice almost drew a relieved smile from the young man, who followed the voice into the living room, where he had once watched other potentials manipulating objects with their gifts, gifts he had not realised were his.

Sitting on the broad sofa, a pile of balls of colourful yarn heaped on her right, knitting needles in her hands, the Oracle didn't look up as he entered, checking a pattern that was lying on the cushion to her left.

"I wondered when you might be dropping by."

His hands folding behind his back, Neo nodded. "You know what happened."

Laying her knitting down in her lap, the Oracle looked up at him, her expression more serious than he had seen it before. "I know that something happened," she replied quietly, "and it was big enough to cause a whole lot of problems for a whole lot of people."

"What was…"

"Hold your horses, kiddo," Getting to her feet slowly and rubbing her back with one hand, she motioned him towards the kitchen, leading him through. "Like I said, all I know was that it was something, but we both know that's not why you're here. You don't want the 'what' right now. All you're looking for is the 'where'."

"Do you know…"

Raising a hand to silence him again, the Oracle made her way to the stove, where the contents of a pan were bubbling, the thick, steaming brown substance releasing a succulent aroma. Stirring it, she sniffed the contents with a satisfied sigh.

"Just a minute more," she said with a small smile up at Neo. "You want to stay for some soup?"

"Soup?" Neo echoed, at a bit of a loss.

"Yes," She smiled again, the same smile she had directed at him when she had informed him that he wasn't too bright. "I know you're going to say no, but I had to ask anyway. It's the hospitality in me. You'll want directions, I guess."

Feeling slightly embarrassed to decline her hospitality, Neo nodded, shifting from one foot to the other. "Uh… yeah. That would be great. Thanks."

Turning to face him fully, one age-spotted hand resting on the polished counter beside her, she gazed at him intently. "What would you say if I told you take second star on the right and straight on til morning?"

Neo's brow furrowed. "Isn't that… uh… how you get to Neverland in Peter Pan?"

Pointing up at him with one finger, the Oracle's eyes gleamed. "Bingo! Is that clue enough for you."

"Unless it's somewhere in yellow pages, that's all I get?"

"You're a smart kid when it comes down to it, Neo," the Oracle replied cheerfully, taking him by the arm and drawing him along with her as she walked. "You'll work it out as long as you remember you're not dealing with Peter Pan and the fairies. The directions are waiting. You just have to know where to look. Follow them, do exactly what they say and you're set."

Staring at her in confusion, he started to ask, "But where…?"

Patting him on the arm, the Oracle simply replied, "You'll do fine." before ushering him out of the small apartment, leaving Neo standing in the painfully bright hallway, feeling more confused than he had before entering.

***

It was a matter of great concern and consternation for Olórin.

Barely had he come to accept that their haven was no longer safe, but the effect that the invasion had triggered in the other inhabitants of the world was terrifying. The peace of Valinor had given way to deathly silence, a silence aroused by confusion, fear and anger.

Even hate.

Such a dark emotion seldom affected Elfkind, left most often to the minds and hearts of men but now, it was embodied in the form of Elrond's most trusted and beloved friend, the Elf Warrior, Glorfindel.

Pacing the hallways of Elrond's home, Glorfindel seemed little more than feral, his golden hair unkempt about his face, tainted silver by the evening moonlight which was cutting through the elaborate windows which lined the hall.

Standing in the doorway of the beautiful building, Olórin's blue eyes followed the progress of the fair Elf, as he stalked back and forth, little more than a great, caged cat, his upper lip curled back from his teeth.

One hand contracted in a deadly rhythm about the handle of his Elven blade, which hung at his right hip, the knuckles of the Warrior's hands whitening with every slow tightening of his hand.

Olórin did not need to be told why such a reaction had emerged in the proud Elf, his own shock and outrage at the assault on Valinor causing him such pain as to break his very heart, but never before had he seen Glorfindel so lost of reason. 

White-hot rage poured forth from the fair Elf in waves, so deadly was his stance that Olórin felt great comfort in the presence of his staff, his heart telling him that – were he to anger the Elf – he might well receive of that fury in abundance.

"My Lord Glorfindel."

Whirling around at the call of his name, his blue-grey eyes aflame, Glorfindel's gaze sought out Olórin's, his hardened features smoothing somewhat at the sight of the even more ancient one. "Mithrandir," he said, inclining his head politely.

"You are troubled, my Lord." _Such was the gift with words_, he though dryly. _Unable to even say such a thing without sounding as tongue-tied as a feeble-minded fool was truly a great gift._

Glorfindel's expression tightened once more, his arms folding upon his breast as he turned from the Maia. "You fought the intruder when no other could, Mithrandir," he said, his voice no longer beautiful, but tight and controlled. 

"Yes," Olórin agreed quietly. "But I would not will such a fight on any other. The stranger is not of this world. He is beyond the abilities of men and Elves." He paused as he came to accept the reality of the situation. "Even beyond my gifts."

He could sense the open surprise in the Elf, surprise that was quick to be reflected on Glorfindel's noble features. "But you battled him, Mithrandir," he protested. "You battled him and yet, you live."

"I battled him, yes, my Lord," Olórin admitted, his tone grave, "but had I been without the aid of your people, had I faced him alone, then I know that I would have fallen, as I fell once before."

"But you were only ever defeated by a Balrog of the Morgoth…"

"And yet," Olórin said, "in fighting this stranger, I believe I have found one that is equal to a Balrog, in spite of his appearance. Never before have I encountered a mere man or even an Elf to fight thus." Taking a step to Glorfindel, Olórin raised his aged hand, touching the Elf upon his shoulder. "Do not seek vengeance on him, even if it seems to rest in your very hands. Do not be the cause of your own doom."

"Of course," Glorfindel said, but Olórin could see a gleam in his eye, a feral flicker.

"My Lord Glorfindel," the Maia said softly, gravely, "Should any other from outside enter our world, they may be as dangerous as this first stranger. Do not place yourself in danger."

"I understand."

"And yet, you do not heed my words," The Wizard's words were patient, but his expression stern. "They are more than we know, my Lord. To draw them into battle is folly. It will lead you into shadow, a fate I would not wish on any of your kind."

The stubborn edge upon Glorfindel's face did little to ease the concern of the Maia, who sighed, leaning wearily upon his staff. His mind searched for some warning that may yet permeate the fair Elf's resolve, though he knew his own desire for justice burned as fiercely.

"I have listened to your words, Mithrandir," Glorfindel's voice was still taut, but even and his eyes sought Olórin's, darkened with defiance. "Have no doubts of that. I will not place myself in danger."

"You are no young Elfling to be told how to behave, Glorfindel," Olórin said after a moment of consideration, "but I am trusting that you will understand the severity of this situation and do not allow your emotions to drive you to action. Should you allow these dark humours to seduce you, then none will be able to save you from shadow."

The fair Elf lowered his head, then nodded. "I understand, Mithrandir," he said.

Sighing, Olórin could still see the torn expression on the Elf's features and knew that he could say no more to advise and counsel Glorfindel's actions. "Then, I shall leave you, my Lord," he said, "I must see Lord Elrond."

"He rests," Glorfindel replied with a curt nod down the hall. "There."

"Thank you," Olórin said, bowing his head. "And I trust you will consider what I have said."

"Of course, Mithrandir." Glorfindel answered sincerely, though his expression was inscrutable and his eyes cool. Olórin drew a tremulous breath and said nothing more, moving past the fair Elf to go to the bedside of his long-time friend. 

***

A night and a day had passed, if not more, since Neo had entered the Matrix to seek out the counsel of the Oracle. Emerging, he hadn't spoken to the other crew members, taking the control seat and beginning to work.

On the dark metal of the wall amid the circuit boards and cables, the timer gleamed dim red, informing Morpheus that it was approximate six o'clock in the morning, in spite of the lack of daylight.

Pulling a heavy sweater over his head, the Captain of the Nebuchadnezzer ran a hand over his face, the stubble dusted over his chin rasping roughly against his fingertips as he made his way deeper into the main deck of the hovercraft.

The sight of a single figure hunched before the monitors and screens of the control station made him pause, his lips tightening in a thin line. "What are you looking for, Neo?" he asked softly.

Not looking around from the screen, Neo's fingers skimmed on the keyboards and sensors, almost blinding in their rapidity. "I'm looking for the directions," he said tersely. Deep shadows smudged beneath his eyes, looking even darker than most against his sickly, pale skin. "She said they were here. I have to find them."

Approaching to stand behind the chair where Neo sat, Morpheus' eyes darted sideways to Tank, who was pretending to repair a control drive on the wall. The cable connection lead in his hands was barely even touching the plug he was holding, his attention quite clearly on Neo, full of concern.

Moving away from the control station, Morpheus approached Tank. "How long has he been there?" he asked in an undertone, watching Neo move from screen to screen, his lips moving silently as he took in the information displayed on the screens.

"All night," Tank answered, equally softly, winding the cable around his arm, giving up all pretence of working. "I've never seen anythin' like it, Morpheus. He hasn't stopped for hours. Just keeps goin' on about findin' the way there."

"To Valinor," Morpheus murmured, his brow furrowing once more.

"I don't think he's gonna give up any time soon," Tank admitted and though his eyes were on Neo, Morpheus knew that the controller was watching him out of the corner of his eyes. "But if he keeps goin' on like this, he's gonna kill himself tryin' and we both know it."

Morpheus nodded, sighing. "Then," he said, more to himself than to Tank. "There is only one thing we can do."

"Do you know where to find what he's lookin' for?"

The older man's expression revealed nothing. "I think I know where to look," he said quietly. "I do not want to disappoint him, if I am mistaken, though."

"But if you're right?" Trinity's voice interrupted from behind them. Both Morpheus and Tank turned to her. She was leaning against the doorframe, her arms tightly folded about her chest. "You know he'll go in there, no matter how dangerous it is."

"Neo is determined, Trinity."

"And when he's determined, there's no way to change his mind." She smiled faintly, though it didn't quite reach her eyes, her face drawn and pale with fatigue. "If you're right, will you let him go?"

"If I am right in my line of thinking, then he will know about it and will be there before I can stop him," Morpheus replied seriously. "You know we cannot stop him if this is his chosen path."

"So," Trinity laughed mirthlessly. "You better find it for him, before he kills himself with exhaustion looking for it."

Though her intonation was almost glib, both men knew she wasn't joking.

***

Rush hour had come to Milan. Cars, scooters, trucks and pedestrians sped in every direction, each individual uncaring or oblivious to those around them as they went about their day. 

Morning traffic roared along the streets, the hustle and bustle of the crowded city accompanied by the steady hum of noise and distraction, only ignored by those familiar with the life in the city.

And one other.

In a café facing onto the street, a tall, stern, dark-haired man was seated at a round table, upon a veranda beneath a broad spread red and white umbrella, a newspaper raised before him.

With striking features, far from handsome, but not repulsive, the attitude he exuded almost seemed to be that of complete self-confidence and control, nothing around him even important enough to afford the least moment of his attention, barely even acknowledging the dark-haired waitress who was bustling about him.

Clad in a crisp, dark suit, white shirt and dark tie in spite of the heat, his eyes were concealed behind sunglasses which made any who passed look at him with the curious suspicion that they might be seeing a part-concealed celebrity. 

Gathering the used cups and glasses from the table, the young waitress glanced sidelong at the man around the rim of her spectacles, clattering the spoons as his face turned in her direction, the newspaper lowered slightly, almost as if he could feel her watching him. 

Though she couldn't see his eyes, she could feel his cool gaze on her, her hands shaking slightly, unnerved by the chill that shot down her spine at the feeling she got when he looked at her. One of the glasses dropped from her grip, bounced once and then shattered on the ground, the girl uttering a startled curse.

One side of the man's lips lifted slightly in a derisive smirk, then he looked away, raising the newspaper once more.

Heat rising in her already rosy face, the little waitress gathered up the remainder of the cups, glasses and spoons, uttering a humiliated apology, before fleeing back into the café. 

Shooting a malevolent look through the window in the direction of the man where he sat, his own cup of coffee untouched upon the table, the waitress returned to her work in the hopes he would soon be gone, but it was not to be the case.

Once more, it appeared that he was reading the newspaper, ignoring the bright sunlight pouring down on the streets, between the buildings, apparently lingering without purpose or reason.

How long he had sat there, even the small waitress could not say, but she had emerged from the shop to clear another table when she saw him freeze, slowly lower the newspaper once more and look towards the clear sky. A slow and terrifying smile spread upon his lips.

Folding the paper perfectly in half, he placed it on the tabletop, straightening it until it was parallel with the edge of the small table, and rose to his feet. Straightening his lapels, he tilted his head right, then left, the bones clicking.

Then, without further deliberation, he walked into the streets and vanished amid the morning pedestrians without trace.

***

The world came sharply into focus around Neo, his breath catching as he fell heavily, raising am arm to shield his eyes from the bright sunlight, sunlight that seemed so much stronger, clearer and purer than anything he had encountered before.

This was it!

This had to be Valinor!

Morpheus had found the way in for him, seeking out the old books and pointing the way: using his abilities, he entered the Matrix and followd the light into the West 'until the seas of the Bent World fell away beneath it, and the winds of the round sky troubled it no more, and borne upon the high airs above the mists of the world it passed into the Ancient West'. *

How he had passed from the reality of his old world and into Valinor, he couldn't say.

Soaring, he had sped, faster than he had ever flown in his life, the air rushing around him until a burst of light had blinded him and he had felt himself crashing to the ground, twigs crackling beneath him, the scent of nature and life suffusing the air.

Panting, he stumbled to his feet and raised his eyes.

Only then did he become aware of the weapons of a hundred figures trained upon him.

* Quote taken from page 366 of The Silmarillion (1999 edition)


End file.
